September 27 1810- Battle of Bussaco
by AnimeGoose
Summary: September 27 1810- Battle of Bussaco


**Drabbles from History of Portugal**

**September 27 1810- Battle of Bussaco**

It had all started because the rivalry between France and England. Of course, their rivalry began long ago, but this time, it was to bring something new to Europe. France had conquered most of the lands in Europe, and the Continental System had been enforced upon the nations he now ruled. To bring upon an embargo against British trade. And Portugal had refused that. Following the invasion of Spain, the French were now forcing their way into Portugal, where now, they were met at the Ridge of Bussaco.

As far as he was concerned, Portugal was probably one of the last nations in Europe that still resisted France. The ironic thing was that Spain and France had invaded Portugal together, but seeing that French troops occupied such large areas of Spain, he was included into the attack, turned against by his own friend. Now it was just Portugal. Portugal and England.

The ridge seemed to be a blessing for the Allied troops, for they could watch the French gather down below them. The French would have no idea how many men and artillery they had, nor would they be able to find the easy road up around the ridge, not with the pickets posted in the way.

One of the redcoats came towards him, with two mugs in his hand.

"One for you, and one for me" England said, unslinging his musket and kicking it aside. He sat down beside Portugal and handed him the mug of tea before sipping at his own.

It was 5am in the morning, still foggy and quite cold. The ridge was lit up by scattered fires, tended to by cold soldiers and battalion wives. There was not much sound, apart from the crickets, the occasional cough, and the stamping of restless horses.

"Do you think the French will be coming?" Portugal asked worriedly.

It was a question that they all wanted answered, but who could they ask? Even Wellington himself couldn't be sure of French action, and they couldn't go down and speak to Massena, could they?

"I honestly have no idea" England replied, placing the cup by his feet and trying to warm his fingers. But it seemed to be a ridiculous attempt, to get up the slope. What if the Allied forces had more men than they expected? What if when they went up, they were annihilated? What if the opposite happened?

Portugal silently cursed France and his Emperors. It was his conquest for glory, power and honour that also brought the war to Europe. So many lives were lost to his greed, and even more were soon to be lost as well. The French's bugle was called and immediately, the soldiers on the ridge had their weapons; be it musket, rifle, carbine or sword, by their sides.

"May we bring defeat to the enemy" England said, making the sign of the cross and taking his ammunition. They both headed their own ways, to join their regiments- England, 9th Regiment Of Foot, the Fifth Infantry Division, Portugal in the Portuguese Division. Soon the bugle was called again and the drummers began picking up a beat. The French ranks, to most of their surprise were advancing straight up the ridge which seemed a ridiculous idea.

The blue clad voltigeurs were advancing slowly, which gave the gunmen a slight advantage. England found Portugal amidst the crowd and had soon enough got bustled and pushed together.

"I hope your shooting is just as well" England grunted, reloading his musket as Portugal aimed a low shot with his rifle.

"We are the _atiradores_, and the 'fighting cocks' of the army, at least according to Lord Wellington" he replied drily, shooting again.

A regiment of redcoats were heading down and sending volleys of fire at the French. An Eagle glittered in the lifting fog. A nine pounder guns to their left, fired, cutting down many men, and the loud bang and cries of fallen soldiers echoed around the place. The smoke from their firearms was thinning, but the surviving French continued their advancement.

The crackling of musketry and rifles went on, and the occasional blast of the guns exploded loudly. As they got closer, more were cut down, and soon, several of the Allied soldiers were sick and tired of waiting. Most had already clipped on their bayonets, others were using their swords, and the remaining decided on the butts of their guns.

To England's surprise, Portugal was one of the many stumbling down the ridge and hacking at the enemy. It was frightening to see one of his old friends, usually so calm, take out a blade and cutting down men in cold blood. Even if they were invading his country.

He disappeared amongst the red, green, brown and blue jackets and screams of mercy rose from the battlefield. There were shouts as officers tried to rally the men and send them back up the ridge- if they stayed, they could be easy prey for the cavalry.

The French cavalry broke ranks, and horses leapt over dying or injured men. Sabres raised high, their blue uniforms were splattered with blood as the Anglo Portuguese soldiers were cut down. A battalion of redcoats obediently set up the ridge, a few staying behind to shoot at the cavalry, but it was the brown coated Portuguese division that remained, still halfway down the slope.

In skirmish formation, they would be cut down within seconds by cavalry. The dragoons and hussars kicked at their horses, impatient to get to the soldiers, but as they rode uphill, the horses began to labour. Speed was the secret behind the light cavalry's success. As they slowed in their advance, the soldiers fired several volleys.

Horses and men screamed and fell. The cavalry turned around, realising the danger of charging uphill. The brown coats cheered at their small success before heading back over the ridge to continue firing at the infantry.

The battle was over by late afternoon. The Allied soldiers watched from the ridge, as the defeated French collected their dead or injured. Scores of French prisoners sat, shielded by soldiers, and protected from the angry civilians. Bodies were strewn over the land, and their blood formed small pools amongst the heather.

England was frightened by the sudden streak of bloodthirstiness in his old time friend. Portugal had returned, covered in blood, but still calmly counting coins that he had taken from a dead French officer.

"We are to march down to Coimbra then behind the Lines of Torres Vedra" he was saying "Once we are behind the lines, your army can flee to Lisbon and back home like you've always intended"

He was more surprised by the sharp tone of his voice. The English weren't going to run away. They were here to help an old friend, and to defeat a long time enemy. Together.


End file.
